In the Long Run

I was a little unsure as I approached the receptionist. “I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” I ventured. “I’m here for…”

The older woman looked bored as she cut me off curtly. “Name?” I told her and she motioned me through the door on my left and into the mammogram waiting area.

Yes, now I remembered this room from last year. Obviously it was designed to appeal to women. There were flower arrangements on the coffee table and endtables, and paintings on the walls. The modern sofas were comfortable, and covered in a rich purple brocade. Two knitted throws, one purple and one a pleasantly contrasting hunter green, were casually draped across one end and arm of each sofa, as though inviting a woman to snuggle up with the pillows on the couch, feet tucked beneath her, and the afghan tucked around her. A flat screen TV on the wall was tuned with low volume to The Food Channel, on which a perky chef chit-chatted with her equally perky co-host. The lamps on the endtables provided relaxing, subdued lighting. Everything in the room seemed to be designed to provide for the comfort of the clients, and to ease any nervousness or anxiety.

I crossed the room to an endtable which held a decorative candy dish full of breath mints and festive candy canes. I slipped a spearmint lozenge in my mouth, settled in on the couch, and closed my eyes. I could almost fall asleep, I mused.

My reverie abruptly ended as the door flew open, and a technician strode past me across the room and opened the door leading to the clinical area. “Right through here,” she ordered. No cordial greeting? No introductions? She was cold and brusque in contrast to the warmth of the waiting room.

She pointed to a changing area. Her blunt instructions were precise, but delivered in a short, edgy manner. I sensed that any dawdling would be frowned upon, so I hurriedly changed into the medical gown. I didn’t actually hear her outside my changing cubicle, but I imagined she was there tapping her foot, and checking her watch every 10 seconds.

Once we were in the X-ray room, it was very plain that though she was a much smaller and younger woman, she was definitely in charge. I realized I had better respond to her demands quickly or….or….else. I started to sweat a little. I knew that the machine’s controls were foot-operated. It hit me that this foot-tapping, impatient woman had the capability to really hurt me.

Shaken though I was, I reacted swiftly to her commands which I considered veiled ultimatums. When she said “Right arm here”, I moved it there immediately. When she said, “Relax your shoulder,” I tried, as best as I could, to relax. When she said, “Hold your breath,” I almost muttered, “I’m already holding it—in fear and trepidation of you!”

When the procedure was done, she told me to wait right there for a few minutes, and she darted out the door. I exhaled deeply. Mind you, I’ve had mammograms before, and it wasn’t the X-ray itself that had worried me. No, I had been nervous that the terse and almost churlish manner of the technician could result in a far less than gentle and benign experience for me.

She did not look happy when she came back in the X-ray room five minutes later. “We have to do the right side over again,” she said. I grimaced. Did I just imagine a glint of sadistic satisfaction in her eye? I prayed that I had not done something to incur her wrath, and mutely and meekly moved back to the machine.

When the ordeal was over, I walked through the front office as the receptionist totally ignored me. I was surprised to note that the entire visit had lasted a mere 19 minutes, including my waiting time and dressing time. The technician’s abrupt manner suddenly became a positive thing in my mind. She had left me with time to go home and curl up on my own couch with my own afghan. No hurry, no more worry.

Posted by Cyppy at 7:56 PM  2 comments

I felt lonely and nostalgic lining up at the start without my good running buddy Dorothy, who is still recovering from a serious accident. The Turkey Trot is a race that we have often run together in the past.

The radio announcer on the megaphone shouted “Go!” and the small crowd took off down the road. Of course there were plenty of imprudent runners who began excitedly sprinting, only to slow considerably after about 400 yards with pants and gasps as they realized their pace was not feasible for four laps.

The Turkey Trot is a different sort of race: instead of trying to finish the fastest, the runners estimate their finishing times, and the winner is the person who comes closest to his predicted time. In years past I have always overestimated my time, but this year I thought it would be more accurate because I planned to just run at my normal training pace, which I can keep fairly consistently. No reason to get competitive, I thought. Ha!

I hadn’t run even a half a lap when I came up behind her. She was wearing blue running tights and a white top—my nemesis from last year’s Turkey Trot—Surrena. Last year, I hadn’t come upon Surrena until the last 100 yards of the race. At that time, I had moved to pass her, and suddenly she had shot out in front. I had sped up to catch her, but she had been too fast. She had beaten me by several yards. Surrena had been a star sprinter on the high school track team a few years ago, and she obviously could still perform.

This year Surrena was running side by side with a young man, and at a slightly slower pace than I. After running on their heels for about 200 yards, I passed them both. But within about 30 seconds, Surrena and partner passed me back, running considerably faster. I knew she recognized me, and I thought, “Fine. Let them run faster. I’m staying at my pace.”

But by the middle of the second lap, I was directly behind them again. I shadowed them through the end of lap three, and it seemed like her companion was tiring a bit. I could hear his heavy breathing, so I decided to pass them and pick up my pace. My strategy seemed to work, as I could hear his panting become fainter and fainter behind me. I was running faster now than in the first three laps, and knew I would be well under my predicted time. But I felt light on my feet, and I was only a half of a lap from the end, and decided to go for a good personal time, rather than my slower predicted time.

It happened again at about 100 yards to go. Suddenly and silently, Surrena was on my right, sans her partner, and she was running fast. I couldn’t just let her blow by me, so we began an out and out sprint to the finish. The high school track coach cheered us on, as we passed him, neck and neck.

With the finish line a mere 10 yards ahead, Surrena used her sprinter’s kick to surge forward into the chute just ahead of me. “You did it to me again!” I congratulated her afterward. “You’ve been working on your kick—nice job!” she complimented me graciously.

I wasn’t disappointed, and even felt satisfied. It was Thanksgiving, and I was thankful for many things…including that I could run almost as fast as a former high school sprinter.

Posted by Cyppy at 8:11 PM  1 comments

I started wearing a pedometer about two months ago in conjunction with a fitness program at work. The pamphlet describing the program indicated that I would need to accumulate at least 10,000 steps a day to be considered “Active”. I was surprised to find that without counting the steps in my running and other workouts, I only took about 3,000 steps a day—labeled “Inactive” in the brochure. Ouch. Three thousand steps is equivalent to walking only about a mile and a half. Now that my marathon is over, I haven’t been doing very much running, or apparently, walking either.

I admit to being a little competitive, even with myself. I decided to step it up (so to speak). If 10,000 steps would put me in the “Active” category, I decided to push myself to acquire 15,000 or even 20,000 steps a day. I’m pleased to report that I have achieved the 20,000 steps a day total several times, even when I counted, at the most, a 5-mile run in the total.

My zeal for adding steps in my life expanded to a desire to include my husband in this healthy obsession. I bought him a pedometer, and signed him up for an individual walking program. Soon he was checking his steps throughout the day just as I had been doing, and suddenly there was a bit of competition between us.

“How many steps do you have?” my husband began asking, seemingly innocently enough. We’d compare, and quite often, at the beginning of the day he could gloat about having more steps than I. Ah, but he, unfortunately has a desk job, while my job requires me to take many steps. I almost always surpassed him by dinner time, and if I didn’t, I found myself searching for ways to increase my step total.

One night we were watching a TV program together, and I began stepping in place. “Are you going to do that the entire show?” my husband asked incredulously. “No,” I answered sweetly. “I’ll probably jog in place during the second half.”

On Halloween night, I dreaded having to answer the door of my split-entry house numerous times for the trick-or-treaters, requiring a trip up and down stairs. At first I thought I was being pampered when my husband jumped up and chivalrously answered the door for about the first 10 groups of kids. Then I realized what he was doing—he was getting more steps!

Last weekend after our pickleball workout, he and I put away the equipment together, and then discovered that we didn’t have the right key to lock the equipment closet. “Drat!” I grumbled. “The key is at the back desk way down the hall.” “I’ll go get it,” my husband offered. Then I realized what was up. “No, I’ll go,” I said, and began to sprint out of the gym. “Ha, ha, more steps!” I chortled. “Wait!” He yelled after me. “Let’s at least do rock, paper, scissors!!” Too late. I was already 50 steps ahead of him.

So our friendly competition continues. Rather than accumulating the highest number of steps, really our goal is better health through more activity. And that is certainly a step in the right direction.

Posted by Cyppy at 11:06 PM  3 comments

One of my favorite news personalities reported a story from Jerusalem this morning. He commented that it was very inspirational to see members of three major religions, Christianity, Judaism, and Islam, devoutly express their faith by word and deed throughout the city. The reporter admitted that he, himself, was “a spiritual person, but not a religious person.”

I think I know what Matt Lauer meant, but I don’t agree with his assumption. A politically correct evaluation of his remark probably acknowledges that a person may have a personal inner spirituality, and an individual relationship with a higher power without regularly exhibiting any outward manifestation of it. But too many people use that sort of definition of a “private and personal” spirituality as the basis for an intellectual philosophy that is often self-centered, and lacking in the positive action that characterizes a spiritual person.

Every person is born a spiritual being. It is the spiritual aspect that completes man, gives him a soul, and allows him to use both mind and heart to relate to others on a level that is not just physical, and much more than intellectual. However, spirituality is not developed to the same extent in every person.

Expanding those innate spiritual beginnings requires more than professing belief or adopting an intellectual creed. It requires not only a system of beliefs, but also fundamental practices, which is the definition of religion. A person may have a deeply personal relationship with God, but his spirituality is ultimately tested and seasoned through his interaction with people around him. It requires a sort of spiritual triangle, between a person, God, and his fellowmen. Spirituality can be honed and enlarged, and pure religion is the vehicle by which people more easily practice, and perfect the triangle.

There may be a zealous and disciplined few for whom organized religion is not a necessity for developing spirituality. But for most people, without a framework of guidelines, their spiritual development does not progress beyond an embryonic state. Spirituality demands more than lip service—it requires true service through one’s religion. It is difficult to back up the premise of being a spiritual person, without being a practicing religious person also.

Posted by Cyppy at 10:11 PM  2 comments

The big L ran the marathon in 2:59.

No, not Lance Armstrong. Yes, he did run the New York City marathon yesterday in 2 hours and 59 minutes, but I’m talking about my daughter L. Four years ago she ran a marathon in 2 hours and 59 minutes. I’m still in awe of her achievement.

After his debut marathon, Armstrong said, "That was without a doubt the hardest physical thing I've ever done. In 20 years of pro sports, endurance sports, from triathlons to cycling, all the Tours, even the worst days in the Tours, nothing was as hard as that, and nothing left me feeling the way I feel now in terms of just sheer fatigue and soreness.” And he had professional runners pacing him the whole way!

Natalie Morales of The Today Show, whose training blog I’ve been following, also ran the marathon, clocking a time of 3:31, her personal best. She beat my last month’s marathon time by 14 minutes—I figure she is about one minute faster for every year younger she is than I! I felt a kindred spirit connection to her when I read that she was a little disappointed at not making her goal time—which would have been just one minute faster! Ya gotta love competitive women.

The marathon, said New York City marathon race director Mary Wittenberg, "is the common man's Mount Everest. It's become more of a check-off-the-box thing, something that goal-oriented people want to achieve as they go through life."

I read that last year, approximately 153,000 women completed marathons. Once primarily considered a man’s race, apparently it has become the common woman’s Mount Everest too--although I wouldn’t call anyone who completes a marathon “common.” Congratulations to Lance and Natalie, and all the other runners who completed the 26.2 miles. And props again to you, L. You’re still my marathon idol!

Posted by Cyppy at 8:49 PM  3 comments